


The Inferno at 221B Baker Street

by NadineRoseM



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Dragonlock, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Self Confidence Issues, Self Loathing, Smauglock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadineRoseM/pseuds/NadineRoseM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has always been a recluse, hiding himself away from society. It is only after intervention from Mycroft that he emerges into the world, ready to become the world's first consulting detective while concealing a horrible secret of his own. He builds a friendship with John Watson who helps him hide his secret, but for how long?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It started with fire. The flames spread with urgency through his body. It felt like shards of scolding glass that tore through his body,paralysing every nerve and sending pain sheering down every vein until it consumed him. With his body completely immobilised, his mind soon followed. He could feel his body contort involuntarily with every new wave of pain that coursed through him; his heart hammering against his ribs like a jackhammer. Above all, he could feel the build up of panic as his lungs restricted of air, the lump in his throat and his eyes clouded over as the darkness reached out to swallow him whole.

  
Then, as soon as it had appeared; the fire was extinguished. He jerked onto his side as he took a sharp intake of breath and took a few moments to settle himself. There was no denying the persistent tremor that rattled his lanky, exhausted frame or the sweat that soaked his dark, wild curls and caused his clothes to cling to him like a straight jacket. Every movement hurt; every breath agony. His head was pounding and he couldn't help the involuntary whimper that escaped his lips.

  
Something cold pressed against his forehead and his body automatically reacted to the touch. The wet rag combatted against his soaring fever and he sighed in relief as it trickled down his face and cooled down his burning skin. He could feel the reassuring strokes against his head, brushing against his soaked curls in an awkward gesture of comfort. He almost sneered as an automatic reaction to such a sentimental action, but in his weaker moments he just couldn't deny the attempt of comfort. After all, it was these moments, brought out through the most monstrous of experiences, that allowed him to feel the littlest bit human.

  
Almost.

  
He slowly opened his eyes, blinking a few times to focus his sight at the man before him. The room was in cast in darkness, with the only source of light originating from the glow of the moon that shone through the window of their London flat. It caught the silver strands of hair, creating the illusion of a halo around his head. As he stared, he became aware that the other man's lips were moving slowly and his ears soon connected the muffled sounds to dialogue. He knitted his brow in thought and focused on the words while his body fought unconsciousness.

  
"You're okay, Sherlock. I'm here." He spoke softly, not wanting to startle the man. He offered a reassuring smile, the light catching the corner of his mouth as he sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his hair in a pathetic attempt of assurance. He knew that under any other situation Sherlock would be sickened by such an act, but he couldn't deny him. He couldn't just sit and watch him suffer through his condition alone; to lie in bed and hear the strained sounds of agony that would often emerge in the dead of the night.

  
So he often found himself going against his better judgement and staggering down the stairs into the other bedroom of 221B Baker Street, armed with only a dampened cloth and a half assed plan of action to calm the raging fire that pulled at the damaged strings of Sherlock Holme's humanity.

  
Their eyes met and he felt his heart skip a beat with what he saw before him. The normally stunning, piercing stare was clouded with pain and sickness. The eyes that could pick up on your life story with just a half focused glance, the eyes that were usually concealed to everyone were uncovered and fragile. He could see the agony and sadness. It made him feel physically sick, seeing the man that he had such respect and admiration for be reduced to a fragile shell behind closed doors. He was frustrated, seeing him suffer at the hands of his inner turmoil and all he could do was offer him a wet rag and feeble attempts of help.  
He was helpless, and it left him disgusted. Sherlock trusted him and relied on him more than he would like or admit, and he was failing. Badly.

  
He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the whisper that escaped Sherlock's lips. He was soft spoken; the opposite of his rather usual pronounced, confident self. He blinked, his brow knitted in confusion as he replayed the words in his head. Had he just said…thank you?

  
With that, Sherlock took a deep breath and let himself slip back into the painless sea of unconsciousness. However, not even the lure of sleep could compete with the persistent nature of his mind. With the vast amount of knowledge and intelligence harboured in the walls of his Mind Palace, Sherlock still couldn't fathom how he found himself in this situation.

  
How could he of possibly became the Best Friend of John Hamish Watson.


	2. Meet Dr. Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock settles in to 221B Baker Street with the help of his elder brother, who advises him to go out and find himself a roommate and build friendships. In true Sherlock style, this idea never goes as planned. 
> 
> Just a heads up guys! This chapter follows the events of "A Study in Pink" to an extent to keep the beginning true, but I've done my best to tell it from an alternate view than the one depicted in the show.

The repetitive tap of shoes pacing the wooden floor drilled into his head, causing a low snarl to escape his lips. He was sitting on the couch, pressed up against the wall at the far side of the room. His lanky legs stuck up over the edge, allowing him to rest his elbows on his knee and cradle his head to try and block out the sound but to no avail. He pulled at the roots of his dark, curly hair and lifted his head to give his brother the glare of death.

"Is this really necessary, Mycroft?!" He spit his words, making no attempt to hide his anger.

The older brother paused. He stopped pacing and turned to face his brother fully, taking him in. He could tell that he was anxious by the hunch of his shoulders and the slight tremor that never seemed to leave Sherlock's hands. He frowned at that, and let his view rest on his wrist for a moment longer before turning away and resuming his pacing as he responded to him.

"Sherlock, you knew that you wouldn't be able to hide forever. This is something you have to face. You want to be the consulting detective after all, isn't that right?" He looked over to see the reluctant nod before continuing. "That won't be possible if you let it control you, little brother."

"I don't need your help." He muttered in response. It was hallow, absent of any real truth. He couldn't even try to make it a convincing lie. He sighed, sitting back against the couch and took in his surroundings. The flat was still full of boxes, but he had started unpacking his books and other odd items. The furniture was mix matched, much like the colour of the walls and the flat as a whole. It drove Mycroft's compulsive disorder to no end. Sherlock couldn't deny the fact that his brother who had made this happen. He had paid for him to get settled in London and push him out of the reclusive ball he had wound himself up in throughout his life. Mycroft wasn't prone to outward displays of affection but he certainly made up for it through his actions.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, his face bemused at the attempted lie. "Is that so." He muttered to himself before finally sitting in the fabric armchair that was positioned before the fireplace. Silently, Sherlock stood up from the couch and crossed the room before placing himself in the leather seat across from him.

He could feel his eyes on him, but he couldn't lift his eyes from the ground. No matter what mask he placed up to protect himself, his face was an open book to Mycroft. Their ability at deduction usually left no stone unturned. However, it also meant that they often received cold, angry remarks from those who rather keep their secrets concealed. Mycroft had the self restraint to keep his outbursts restricted, which was something that Sherlock loathed. His mind was a constant hive of activity; filled with the impending threat of failure. His deduction was often an automatic reaction that slipped out of his mouth before his mind had the chance to block it, often causing him nothing but trouble. No one liked a smart ass.

"Is the roommate really necessary?" He looked at him through the strings of curls that acted like a curtain over his eyes, voicing the question that had been gnawing away at the back of his mind since all this had been set in motion.

"Why is any of this necessary?" He shot the question back at him, standing up. He straightened his jacket out and brushed it down before walking towards the door and lifting his umbrella that lay against the wall. He turned back to face his brother. He looked so fragile and broken sitting in that chair with his robe draped around him like a security blanket. "It's best to get you back into the world. There are people who need you, Sherlock. You may just happen to find out that you need them, too."

Sherlock jerked up then, storming over to his brother and getting in his face. To anyone else, this would have been extremely intimidating. Evidently, Mycroft's senses were telling him to bolt, to put as much space between himself and Sherlock as possible; that he is danger, but he stood firm. He was determined to not let his feelings get the better of him and kept his face emotionless.

"I don't need anyone. Alone protects me." Sherlock spit at him.

Mycroft just sighed, shaking his head slightly in disappointment. He would have to learn. Sooner or later, he was going to need to swallow back his pride and allow people in his life, because he was going to need them. He turned and exited, leaving the door open in his wake as he descended the stairs. He called up to Sherlock as he stood at the door, watching the elder brother leave with a frown cast upon his face. "Friends protect people, brother mine."

****

For once, he was glad that a case had allowed him to escape the confides of the flat. It gave him the ability to stretch and get some fresh air. He wrapped his scarf against his neck and put his coat on, bounding it tightly against himself as if to combat the cold chill of the air; in truth, he was actually happy to have the icy breeze brush against the sauna of his skin and closed his eyes, allowing a quick moment of greedy need. He locked up the door and began his journey on foot.

Of course the journey to St Barts Hospital was tediously long, but it gave him the chance to test his mind; organise his thoughts and above all, avoid having to talk to anyone. He was still fuming from his conversation with his beloved big brother, replaying the conversation over and over again in his head. He subconsciously frowned, knitting his brows together as he focused on the meaning behind his words.

"friends protect people."

He huffed to himself, gaining some per-cautious looks from those near him which he immediately dismissed with a frightening glare. He had often questioned his elder brother; wondering what tasks he had to do as a member of the british government that had seemed to have compromised the sanity of his mind. That would make him think that even being in the open with his condition was a possibility.

Yes, he had worked on numerous cases throughout the past few years, gradually taking on more when he felt comfortable enough to handle it. Most of them could be done within the safety of his own abode, meaning that he could avoid the daunting aspect of interaction unless absolutely necessary. He found solving cases invigorating; stimulating his mind and most importantly distracting him from that ever present monster that fights to escape and swallow his humanity whole.

The odd time he does appear in person to assist with a case he is greeted with a string of insults: Freak, sicko, psychopath. Of course, he had to correct their mistake that he was in fact a high functioning sociopath, which only earned him more hatred and glares. The whispering when his back was turned was something that often struck a cord with his nerves. He cursed it. Cursed the fact that this stupid condition even allowed him to pick up on it, to allow vicious taunts and remarks to knock his already fragile confidence. His pride was the only thing that held him together. He would turn their way and offer them a slightly smug smile, letting them know he knew exactly how they felt and more importantly, that he didn't care.

He wasn't sure how long exactly he had been beating a corpse within an inch of his afterlife before the soft spoken voice of Molly Hooper drew him back into reality, but he was grateful. The morning had been a bit more eventful than he had wished. He had run into an acquaintance, Mike Stamford, on his way to the hospital for which he internally groaned, but did his best to struggle through with common chit chat conversation. Luckily, he could tell the larger man was in a hurry; the dark bags under his eyes and the lethargic movements indicating that he was desperately in need of an early morning caffeine fix, so the catch up was a short one.

The whole incident with the press conference was just a bit of amusement on his part. The police were just so typical, burying their heads in the sand and taking the easiest explanation without question. They were blind to the integrate planning and ignorant of the connections that were clear as day for those with observant minds. In Sherlock's opinion, a bit of humiliation would make them step up their game. Right?

"Bad day, was it?" Molly asks, trying to engage him in conversation.

"I need to know how many bruises develop in the next twenty minutes, a man's alibi depends on it. Text me." He responded, not addressing her question. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good day. He took a small notebook out of his coat and jotted down a few notes, avoiding eye contact.

He could feel the tension as Molly debated over her words. "Listen. I was wondering, maybe later, when you're finished-."

Sherlock looked up through his curls, noting the visible difference of her appearance compared to his entrance into Barts. Her appearance was tidied up: hair brushed, coat straightened and make up re-touched.

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before…" He trailed off.

Molly tensed, suddenly feeling very self conscious about herself. "I uh…I refreshed it a bit."

Sherlock paused, taking in the real meaning of her words before he came to the realisation that he had cut her off. He looked back at his notebook and urged her to continue.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee…?" It was clear, precise. Practiced. Molly held her breath, frightened and instantly regretting her decision.

Sherlock didn't hesitate in response. This was verging into dangerous territory. "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." He nodded his head along as he spoke the last words and abruptly existed the morgue, putting as much space between himself and Molly as possible.

He could hear her high pitched, shaken "okay" as he exited the room and sighed, pausing mid step for a moment. His hand rested on the wall of the staircase as he contemplated going back and apologising. He shook his head, mumbling to himself as he stared holes in the ground before him. "Alone protects me…"

He was in the depths of an experiment when the two knocks on the door broke his concentration. He looked up to see Mike enter the room, followed by an unidentified man that was currently using a crutch as support for an unseen wound. He held his stare for a moment later before returning to his experiment, ignoring the new presence in the room.

"Well, bit different from my day." Reflective comment. Interesting. He could only briefly hear Mike respond before he made his request.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." He asked, not taking his eyes from the microscope. Mike paused, seemingly hesitant. "What's wrong with the landline?"

"Oh, I prefer to text." He responded. He could feel the intense stare of the third man on him but chose to ignore it.

"Sorry, it's in my coat." Mike responded, walking around the lab table around him.

"Uh, here." The third man spoke up, rustling through his pockets in an abrupt fashion. Sherlock lifted his head to look at him. "Use mine." He continued, retrieving the phone from his pocket and held it out towards him.

"Oh." Sherlock paused, casting a brief glance at Stamford before standing up and walking towards the third man. "Thank you."

Mike finally took the hint and introduced him. "This is an old friend of mine, John Watson."

Sherlock made no attempt at introducing himself and took the phone from John. He flicked up the screen so that he had access to the keyboard and began texting. He didn't even look at him before the question escaped his lips.

"Afganistan or Iraq?"

Silence. John casted a glance at Mike, who only offered him a grin and tilted his head to watch the show. John blinked and directed his gaze back at the tall figure before him; his face twisted with confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"Which was it?" Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at him, his gaze lifting from the phone to direct the question towards him. He could see the caution and shock on John's face. He paused for a few more seconds, unaware of the door open behind him. "Afganistan. Sorry how did you-?"

"Ah Molly!" Sherlock exclaimed, happy to see her return. "Coffee, thank you." He could see that she's avoiding his gaze, looking at the floor. Hiding herself. Clearly, her confidence had been knocked from earlier.

He links that thought a bit too late and the words leave his lips before he could process them. "What happened to the lipstick?"

Her head shot up and their eyes met for seconds before she looked away, clearly embarrassed. She had hoped he wouldn't notice. She handed him his mug and responded quickly. "It wasn't working for me."

"Really?" Sherlock turned, "I thought it was a big improvement. Mouth's too small now." He walked back to the microscope while taking small sips of his coffee. He was glad he didn't have to see the disheartened response on her face. What he really wanted to say was that he liked it.

"Okay…" There was that okay again. He allowed a small look of pain cross his face before the shield shot up once more. Molly quickly exited, allowing Sherlock to once again focus his attention on John Watson.

"How do you feel about the violin?" He asked, looking down at the work on his desk. There was no immediate response. It took John a second to realise that the question was directed toward him. What the hell does the violin have to do with anything? "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin and sometimes. When I'm thinking, I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He looked up, maintaining eye contact with John as he explained the reasoning behind his question. He offered a rare, friendly smile.

John looked over at Stamford, "you told him about me?"

Mike seemed puzzled and shook his head, "not a word."

John looked down, clearly uncomfortable about the amount of knowledge this man seemed to know about him. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did." Sherlock responded, turning from him to grab his coat from the bench at the far side of the room. "I was speaking with Mike this morning about how I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." He continued. "Now here he is, just back from lunch with an old friend who is clearly just home from military service in Afganistan, it's no difficult leap." He wrapped his scarf around him.

"How did you know about Afganistan?"

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London." Sherlock ignored his question, too busy with the content on his phone. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at seven o-clock." He stopped before him, finally looking up and giving him eye contact.

"Sorry, I gotta dash. I got to get my riding crop from the mortuary." He placed his phone in his coat pocket and passed by the stunned John towards the door.

John almost sounds pissed as his thoughts catch up with him. He turned to watch Sherlock leave. "Is that it?"

"Is that what?" He stops, turning back to face him in confrontation. He puts his hands deep in his pocket to hide the tremor that was slowly starting to display itself. Always at the worst times.

"We've only just met and we're looking at a flat." He spoke dryly, looking at him with such a blatant stare that Sherlock felt the need to look away. He didn't like being scrutinised by other people, despite his own behaviour. He thought for a few seconds before he turned to face him again with a frown. "Problem?"

John laughed sarcastically. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." He swallowed, clenching his jaw slightly.

Sherlock seems surprised by that reaction. This man is different. Most people would have insulted him by now. He can't help the challenge though, and stuns John into silence as he begins his long explanation through the art of deduction. "It's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He asked once he finished, slowly moving towards the door. He opened it quickly, unable to hide his tremor now. He paused, looking back in the room to address the final points.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B, Baker Street. Afternoon." He offers him a smug wink and leaves before any further questions are asked.

He rushed down the stairs, his heart banging against his chest and he threw himself into an empty storage cupboard to calm his nerves. He can't have an attack now; he's too far from the flat. He slid down the wall until he met the floor and focused on composing his body. He regulated his breathing, clenching his eyes tightly and focusing. He opened his eyes slightly to glance at his hand and a gasp almost escapes his lips as his gaze lands upon a mix of human skin and blue and purple scales that are slowly spreading down his hand. They catch the light from the gap beneath the door and glisten, shining colours against the walls in a beautiful display of reflection.

"No, no no." He panicked; his chest heaving and his body trembling. It's not supposed to show. It is supposed to stay concealed. Why is it seeping through?! He jerked when he heard a small tap against the door, accompanied by a small voice. "Um…Sherlock? Are you okay…?"

He sat still. His breath hitched in his throat; he can't breathe. Molly. Molly had seen him enter the closet. It's over now. He's doomed. He could only see his hands due to the small source of light that sept below the door. He didn't know just how much it had spread, and now he was trapped. He clenched his eyes tight, cursing his choices, cursing his weakness. His mind betrays him; leaving him desperate for a plan, any plan, to get him out of the closet.

He can only stare helplessly as the knob twisted and the light flooded the room.


End file.
